To the Vanishing Point

by Alan Dean Foster

  "I like you, too, Wendy." She surveyed her surroundings. "I like all of you."

  "Except for my little brother," Wendy added distastefully. "Nobody can like him."

  Mouse laughed; fingertips teasing the keys of an electric piano. "I suppose it is not the nature of elder sisters to like younger brothers. Nevertheless, you should be nice to him. What elder sisters fail to realize is that little brothers have a tendency to become very big brothers as they mature. Big brothers of any age can be very nice to have around."

  "Yeah, that’s what Mom keeps telling me." Wendy studied the radiant material of her new friend’s dress. "Fabric of existence, huh? There’s so many brand names around these days, you can’t keep up. Not Indian, okay, but I still bet it’s imported."

  Mouse nodded slightly. Her every movement was barely more than a suggestion, yet in no ways uncertain. "You could say that, after a fashion."

  "After a fashion — hey, a joke, right? You like punk?"

  "I like anything that makes people smile or feel better about themselves."

  Alicia was trying to make small talk with Frank and listen in on her daughter’s conversation at the same time. Though she had excellent hearing, she was unable to make out more than an occasional word or phrase. Wendy seemed to have lowered her own voice to match that of their guest. Whatever the hitchhiker was saying it appeared to enrapture the teenager.

  She would have felt better about the situation if she could have heard more. No telling what sort of nonsense this half-wild young woman they’d picked up in the middle of the desert might be pouring into Wendy’s ear. There was no point in trying to forbid the conversation. Wendy would ignore any directive so blatant and the motor home was too small to isolate someone anyhow. Alicia decided she was being silly. Strange their guest might be, but she’d been nothing if not friendly and polite, not to mention effusively grateful for the lift. She had a strange but captivating personality, like some exotic fish washed up on a public beach amid the empty beer cans and plastic bags. Certainly she’d captivated Frank and the kids.

  If only she could be sure their guest wasn’t into drugs. Wendy was at an impressionable age.

  If I can’t forbid conversation, she thought, at least I can participate in it.

  "You said you help others but that you’re not a psychologist. That doesn’t leave a whole lot. Are you some kind of traveling social worker?"

  "Something like that." Mouse was unable or unwilling to answer any personal inquiries directly. "I just help others feel better."

  "I know. You’ve already said that." This time Alicia was determined not to be put off. "But just how do you go about doing that? I mean, exactly what kind of therapy do you employ?"

  "Musical. I am a singer."

  "A singer, wow!" said Wendy.

  "A singer." Steven sounded disappointed. He’d been hoping their beautiful visitor was something much more mysterious. A spy, like, or a lady commando. Although spies and commandos usually didn’t help people to feel better.

  If Alicia had been hoping that pinning a specific profession on the hitchhiker would dilute her daughter’s interest, she found Mouse’s admission had just the opposite effect.

  "I’ve never met anyone who sang professionally before," Wendy was saying rapidly. "I mean, I’ve got friends who want to and a couple of the kids at school have parents who are pretty big in show business, but they’re not singers. What do you sing? I know! The way you dress and the kind of voice you’ve got, I bet you’re a lot like Stevie Nicks."

  "Who is Stevie Nicks?" asked Mouse politely.

  "You don’t know who Stevie Nicks is?" Wendy hesitated, then grinned broadly. "You’re putting me on, right? Sure you are. Hey, could you sing something for us?"

  "Oh, I don’t think it’s right to ask something like that." Alicia was beginning to wonder if she mightn’t have pressed her inquiry too far.

  "Your mother’s right." Frank had been listening while driving. "We don’t want to embarrass our guest."

  "Besides," said Steven snidely, "she doesn’t have a band. Every singer’s gotta have a band."

  That’s my boy, Frank thought admiringly. An overweight junk food junkie he is, but he’s got brains. He listens to stuff between the commercials.

  "I do not use a band," said Mouse. For a moment her expression turned dreamy. "It helps, but it is very rare I find musicians who know how to play just the right music. I usually have to sing a cappella."

  "A cappella? What’s that?" Steven wondered.

  "Without accompaniment." Mouse stared down at him, then back at Wendy. "I would be happy to sing you a little tune. It is what I do."

  Alicia’s bluff had been called, but once Mouse began to sing she no longer minded. She was as enthralled by the music as the rest of her family.

  It was a wordless song Mouse sang. Alicia’s formal musical education extended to a single music appreciation class taken in the tenth grade. Despite that, she knew the hitchhiker’s range was extraordinary. The soprano that flowed from Mouse’s throat was pure as spring ice, and just as clear. In actuality Mouse’s voice was effortlessly spanning six octaves. This was quite impossible, but no one in the motor home knew enough about music to realize it. They knew only that the sweet sounds that filled the motor home were achingly lovely.

  Mouse sang without visible effort. Beneath the folds of silk her chest did not seem to rise and fall with each breath. Sometimes her song imitated the sounds of waves lapping at a beach. The slower sections reminded Frank of pictures he’d seen of South Pacific lagoons, pristine sheets of water, flat as mirrors, disturbed only by the fleeting musical ping of a fish breaking the surface.

  Individual notes rippled and flashed through the underlying melody, like brightly colored tropical fish darting among a coral reef. Bells and chimes echoed in the air, lingered in the ear. Certain notes were like pebbles tossed in a pond, each initial sound framed by spreading, decreasing vibrations.

  As the last of the song faded to silence, an exquisite yet disturbing chill ran through his spine.

  Mouse closed her eyes. She’d kept them open while singing. Now she gathered herself as she relaxed. Throughout it all her body had hardly moved. Steven and Wendy sat as if gently frozen. Even television couldn’t hold Steven like that. No one spoke until the last echo of the final note had finally died, dissipating itself against the metal walls. Frank cleared his throat, was surprised how dry it was. It was almost as if he’d forgotten to breathe or swallow for the duration of the song.

  "That was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard in my life," he said slowly. "Maybe the most beautiful thing. I mean, I’m no music expert or anything like that, but I know what I like. And I liked that."

  "I am pleased you did." Mouse sipped her lemonade. "I like to sing. To sing for pleasure, as now, is fun. When I do my work it can be something of a strain. The notes you cannot hear are difficult to sing."

  Frank chuckled good-naturedly. "Now how can you sing notes nobody can hear? If we can’t hear them, that means you can’t either, and if you can’t hear them, then how do you know they’re being sung?"

  "Vibrations. Those are the most beautiful notes of all. You must feel what you cannot hear."

  "I don’t know about that, but I know I heard what I felt. How about it, kids? Not heavy metal, but…"

  "It was amazing." Wendy was gazing at their guest out of worshipful eyes.

  "Yeah, pretty," said Steven, equally overwhelmed if not as descriptive.

  Wendy’s expression turned sly. "I just figured it out. You are going to Las Vegas."

  "She said she wasn’t, kiddo," said Frank.

  "I’ll bet she is, Pops. I’ll bet she was just too shy to tell us. That’s why you didn’t recognize this Vanishing Point place. In art class they told us the vanishing point is where all the lines on a drawing meet. It sounds like a perfect name for a club."

  The Vanishing Point. You had to hand it to his daughter, Frank thought. Considering where
their old man had come from they’d turned out damn bright. Of course it was a nightclub, or something similar. Mouse was a young singer, maybe just trying to get started. She’d landed this important gig in Vegas but didn’t have the bucks to get there. So she’d decided to hitch it across the desert.

  "I mean," Wendy was saying, "it’s so obvious. Anybody can see you’re good enough to sing professionally. I’m right, aren’t I?"

  Mouse smiled enigmatically, then abruptly put a small hand to her forehead. Those expansive violet eyes closed tightly. Lines appeared on that perfect face.

  "What’s wrong?" Wendy was suddenly concerned. "You okay?"

  Mouse’s hand fell from her forehead and she managed another smile. "I just need to rest. My journey thus far has been a long and difficult one. Singing is exhausting."

  "Standing out in that heat would knock anyone for a loop." Frank glanced at Alicia, who spoke up reluctantly.

  "The big bed is in the back. It’ll be quieter there." She tried to set her suspicions and concerns aside. "You lie down for as long as you like. Shall we wake you when we get to Baker?"

  "Whatever you will be comfortable with," Mouse replied as she stood. "I just need some sleep. And this." She hefted the half-empty glass of lemonade.

  "There are holders for glasses and stuff built into the headboard," Wendy informed her. "They’re kinda neat. You won’t spill anything if we hit a bump. I’ll show you." She scrambled to her feet.

  Mouse followed, pausing and turning outside the bedroom door. "Thank you many times afresh. For your kindness and caring."

  "Hey, enough already," said Frank. "We’ve got plenty of room and we were going the same way anyhow, right?"

  "The same way. Yes." Mouse wore an odd expression as she spoke.

  "Thanks for the song."

  "I hope I may be able to sing for you again some time soon." She followed Wendy into the bedroom.

  Alicia waited until she was certain their guest couldn’t overhear before muttering to her husband. "Now, no matter what you think of her musical talents, Frank, that is one peculiar young woman."

  "Who’d you expect to find hitchhiking in the middle of the Mojave? Someone from your bridge club? Encounters like this are what makes life interesting." He was feeling pleased with himself.

  "More than interesting," Alicia argued. "You’re fascinated by her. So are the children."

  "Aren’t you, sweetheart? Who knows? We may have given a helping hand to a budding star. With a voice like that she could be on the Carson show in a couple of months. Then we can say we picked her up in the back of beyond and gave her a hand when nobody knew who she was." He paused, then added, "Don’t tell me she’s still got you worrying?"

  Alicia leaned back in the captain’s chair. "Not worried, exactly. It’s just that she’s so strange."

  "This from a woman who lives in L.A.? The rest of the country thinks everybody who lives in Southern California is strange."

  "She must have some luggage somewhere."

  "I don’t remember that being in the Constitution. And in spite of what you’ve been thinking, she’s no doper."

  "How can you tell, Frank? How can you be sure?"

  He thought fast. "If she was on something, regular, like an addict, there’s no way she could sing a song like that. You need real breath control and concentration."

  "You’re right." Alicia sounded relieved. "I hadn’t thought of that." Frank had the knack of always saying the right thing. Her husband wasn’t particularly brilliant, but he had a way of going right to the heart of a problem. As he’d once told her, he wasn’t smart enough to be distracted by subtleties. It was one of the things that had made him such a successful businessman. No, Mouse couldn’t have sung like that if she’d been high.

  "Then let’s relax. We’ve decided what we’re going to do and everybody’s happy and we’ve even managed a good deed for the day. I wonder," he said thoughtfully, "if she’d let us record some of her music. We can borrow your daughter’s tape recorder, if you can pry those earphones off her head for an hour or two."

  "If she’s really serious about a show business career she might not want somebody taping her compositions, Frank."

  He shrugged. "No harm in asking. I might even be able to help her out when we get home. We’ve got some pretty big names who shop in the Westwood and Valley stores. I could try to make a few contacts for her."

  "Let’s not get too involved, dear. We really don’t know anything about her yet."

  "There you go, worrying again. How could that hurt? You’ve seen how grateful she is just for a lift. She’s an interesting young gal who’s having a hard time making it. Her being a singer explains a lot. Some of these young people trying to break into the business can’t afford but one decent set of clothes. They travel in it, audition in it, perform in it, and sleep naked." He lowered his voice further. "Wonder when’s the last time she had a decent meal."

  Alicia gave it one last try. "Frank, you’re a good-hearted man. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you." She reached across to pat his arm. "But you can’t go involving yourself in the problems of everyone you meet."

  "I’ve no intention of involving myself in the problems of everyone I meet. But I can be selective, can’t I? I wish there’d been someone to give the two of us a helping hand when we were starting out. Just because there wasn’t doesn’t mean I can’t help somebody if I’m given the chance."

  "You’ve helped already. You picked her up and you’re taking her closer to her destination. If Wendy’s right and this Vanishing Point is a club, I’m sure she’ll tell us when we get to the city. We can drop her off right by the front door. That’s a big enough favor to perform."

  "What’s the matter, Alicia? Don’t you like her? She could be our Wendy ten years older."

  "God forbid! Are you sure you haven’t been talking to those big names you mentioned?"

  He shook his head. "Relax, hon. I’m interested in stomach crunchers and basketballs and running shoes. Show biz ain’t for me. I’m smart enough to know that. People are always trying to get me to invest in their projects. The only projects I’m interested in investing in are newer and bigger stores." He blew her a quick kiss. "You’re all the bright life I want."

  They were both silent for a while. Then Frank gestured cheerfully toward the sign coming up fast on their right. "What we need is a break."

  Alicia frowned at the sand-scoured marker.

  DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND

  1 Mile

  GAS — EAT

  "I thought we weren’t going to stop until we got to Baker?"

  "This’ll be more interesting." He was slowing gradually, lining up with the off ramp. "The station in Baker’ll be full of screaming rug rats and overheated people with overheated tempers. This looks quiet."

  Alicia strained to see as they rolled up to the stop sign at the crest of the off ramp. "It looks dead. I don’t see anybody at all."

  3

  The station looked like it had been built in the twenties or thirties, walls of local volcanic rock mortared together, an archaic arch reaching out to the twin pumps like a dirty stucco hand.

  "Bet this was here on the old highway before the interstate was put through," Frank commented as he pulled across the access road and up to the pumps. "We need some gas anyway if we’re going to run the rest of the way straight through to Vegas."

  Alicia checked the gauge and frowned. "But we just filled up back in Barstow. We haven’t come anywhere near far enough to burn up that much gas."

  Frank put the transmission into park. "We’ve been climbing all the way and running the air conditioner on high. It’s a lot hotter here than it was in L.A. You know how these things burn fuel."

  "I didn’t think we’d come up that far, but you’re right. What do I know about motor homes?" She leaned forward and studied the station through the window. "Doesn’t look like it’s been very well kept up."

  "Ahhhh, c’mon," he chided her. "You’re intrigued a
nd you know it." He leaned close, trying to see past her. "I’ll bet whoever runs this place has rattler skins on the walls and a stuffed deer head over the cash register. I could do with a cold beer."

  "We have a whole refrigerator full of beer," she reminded him.

  He sat back, disappointed. "There you go, taking all the romance out of it. Anyway, we do need the unleaded. Then it’s a straight shot all the way across the border and into Vegas. I promise. This is my last chance to show the kids something different, the last time we’ll stop."

  "Not if we keep gulping gas at this rate," she pointed out as she moved her legs so he could pass.

  It was pretty run-down, he had to admit as he stepped out of the motor home and into the heat. One of those ancient old gas stations that used to line the state highways of the Southwest made redundant by the bypassing interstates. This one had managed to hang on because it was fortunate enough to sit next to an off ramp. Closer inspection confirmed his initial appraisal.

  It was all dark volcanic rock and cement, the pitted round stones garish in their setting of faded concrete. The twin gas pumps looked brand-new, though, in striking contrast to the cracked cement island on which they sat. Whoever owned the place had enough sense to maintain his equipment if not his home. The neglect could be intentional. The thick stone walls probably stayed cooler during the day than modern slat and steel. He didn’t see an air conditioner. Probably in the back.

  Poised atop the station was one of those flame-red flying horses that had been common in Frank’s parents' day. Like the pumps, it looked new. It was also probably worth more than the station. He sensed movement behind him, glimpsed his children filling the doorway.

  "Check it out, kids." Shading his eyes with one hand, he used the other to indicate the flying horse. "Major-brand gas and a real antique."

  Wendy had slipped off the earphones, proving anew they weren’t rooted to the bone. "Why are we stopping?"

  "Because I thought this would be an interesting place to stop."

  "Looks like trash to me."

  Frank tried not to growl. "It’s not trash. It’s history. We’re going to get something cold to drink, and we need to get some gas."